Santa strikes back!

(So about two months ago, I wrote a letter to Santy Claus. You see, I'm having somewhat of a quarter-life crisis, trying to figure out where I belong and what I should be doing in this wide, weird world. Since I already know what everybody else expects of me, I decided to seek unbiased advice from the jolliest of advisors: Santy Claus. Today, he wrote back.)

My dear little friend Girl on the Corner,

Well, I just turned on my computer a few minutes ago, and lo and behold, there was your email! It's so nice to hear from you.

Are you looking forward to Christmas? We certainly are. It's the most magical time of the year. We're all very busy you know-Mrs. Claus, the elves, the reindeer and, of course, Santa himself. Ho! Ho! Ho! Everyone's working together to make sure this is the best Christmas ever for boys and girls all over the world.

We had our annual Christmas concert a few days ago. The Elf-Time Singers sang all my favourite holiday songs, including "Santa Claus is Coming to Town." The North Pole Prancers treated us to some great dancing as they sailed across the stage, up into the sky and then back down again in a flurry of fur and antlers. Guess what everyone had for a treat at intermission? Snow cones!

Well, dear little friend, thanks again for your email. I'm always so pleased to find messages like yours in my inbox. Please remember to email next year!

Love,
Santa

(So I think Santy called me a ho. Three times. I also think he didn't actually read my letter, and may be one of those selfish bastards who only yammer on about themselves. You fat Kringle bastard. Okay, I take that back. I still love Santy. But I think I know what I have to do now.)

-Girl on the Corner (is going to consume a snow cone)

Monkey Business

Or "Stop! Or My Chimp Will Shoot!"

(When some people exchange emails with their significant others during the day, the emails are romantic or cute or simple reminders [Honey Bunny: Don't forget the milk, Sugar! Sugar: I sure won't, Honey Bunny!] When Ken and I exchange emails, it sometimes gets weird. As it did today.)

-----Original Message-----
From: Ken
Sent: Thursday, November 12, 2009 4:33 PM
To: Girl on the Corner
Subject: Still think monkey's are cute?

http://www.timeslive.co.za/news/world/article192542.ece

------Original Message------
From: Girl on the Corner
To: Ken
Subject: RE: Still think monkey's are cute?
Sent: Nov 13, 2009 8:58 AM

Well, I'm sure that will never happen with our helper monkey, Alejandro. (By the way, I got us a helper monkey and matching veils) ;)

-----Original Message-----
From: Ken
Sent: Friday, November 13, 2009 9:49 AM
To: Girl on the Corner
Subject: Re: Still think monkey's are cute?

Matching veils?

------Original Message------
From: Girl on the Corner
To: Ken
Subject: RE: Still think monkey's are cute?
Sent: Nov 13, 2009 9:55 AM

You know, like that lady is wearing to hide her "accident." I like to be prepared in case Alejandro has a "bad" day.

-----Original Message-----
From: Ken
Sent: Friday, November 13, 2009 10:34 AM
To: Girl on the Corner
Subject: Re: Still think monkey's are cute?

Ah. You've got a sick mind.

------Original Message------
From: Girl on the Corner
To: Ken
Subject: RE: Still think monkey's are cute?
Sent: Nov 13, 2009 10:48 AM

I thought you would say something like that, that's why I need a helper monkey. A lady on the bus today brought her helper dog along and that's passé. Monkeys are all the rage (literally, apparently).

-Girl on the Corner

My Letter to Santa

Dear Santa,

I know my letter comes a little early (or later than it used to considering I haven't written you since I was nine), but it snowed here yesterday and in Edmonton, that's an admission that Christmas is here.

You'll probably crumple up my letter now, because I'm 25 years old and haven't yet asked about Rudolph or Mrs. Claus. (How are they by the way? I do care, really). The only thing I want from you is just a few moments to read my letter.

I'm 25 and I'm aware that you "exist" in the hearts of children and as the great, kind spirit of giving and love, so even though this service is for a lot of little ones hoping for Barbies and Transformers (not unlike when I was a kid), I still think you have a good message to share.

I wasn't really having the most satisfactory year, like a lot of other folks. All this past year, I've been torn in my professional life as I watch others forced to make tough choices or jump bravely into new challenges. I've been conflicted with three choices:

-Do I stay at a workplace that I'm not particularly fond of and makes me feel trapped with fear of not finding another job in this pitiful economy?

-Do I head back to school for a program I only like (not love) to throw myself back into debt, part-time jobs and my parents' basement?

-Do I march out of my comfort zone, whereby I exchange financial security yet corporate toe-lining for creative freedom yet instability?

Santa, I just don't want to play another year of "what do I do?" High school and college were all about "accomplish these things in this amount of time." Now I'm flying without a plan. And I'm a person who needs a plan. My wish this Christmas is for a clear path. What do you advise I do?

Yours,
Girl on the Corner (all she wants for Christmas is the man with a plan)

I go out walking

There was a time when I used to relish walking. In fact, it was yesterday morning at 11:59. I was planning to take my daily walk about downtown to breathe in the fresh(er) air and stretch my legs. I started this habit after calculating the amount of time I spend in a seated position, hunched over, in front of this glowing box you sit in front of right now. It was a scary number.

So rather than let my body deteriorate the way other North Americans allow theirs to, I started walking. Fifteen minutes here, 20 minutes there. I just walk down one street and up to another. I stay on main roads (no alleys) and streets with fellow lunchwalkers. And I've never run into a problem.

Then during yesterday's walk, my problem was Lewis. I had a weird feeling as I came to the stop light (the orange hand firmly showed this was a bad time to walk). I slowed my pace, but was still able to pass the three teenage girls whose slower, shuffling gate was driving me nuts. Unfortunately that meant I was first to meet Lewis and not at all protected behind the insolent wall of the teenagers.

So as I came to the street corner, I noticed that at neither opportunity to cross the street did he. Lewis is rounder and shorter than me. He is of First Nations descent with dark, close-cropped hair and pock-marked nose. He was wearing baggy track pants and an even baggier hoody. Nothing says I'm a douchebag more than baggy trackwear, because obviously this fool isn't working on his deltoids.

I stood waiting for the light to allow me to cross. I didn't think this douche would stand right in front of me, wave his hand and say hi. But he did. I replied hi back, because I'm not a complete bitch and I didn't want to get stabbed by a crackhead on my lunch-hour.

Lewis: "I'm Lewis. Hi."

Me: Hi. You'll get one hello, but you'll have to peel my skin off to get any information out of me.

This is when I noticed the dried blood on the inside of Lewis' lips. I cannot think of one instance in which I want to talk to someone with blood on their face, and I've had a day to consider this.

He holds out a hand for a handshake. I keep my hand firmly in my pocket and stare at the traffic light (turn, goddamn you, turn!). All I could think about was that he could grab my wrist and then be in a more powerful position to stab me with a heroin needle or drag me down an alley, so I didn't want to give him any upper hand. Literally.

Then he snorts and holds up a hand. "How! Heh, heh."

He gets the trademarked Girl on the Corner fake "heh."

Lewis: "So can you come help me with a problem?"

The light changed, and I'm halfway across the street as I say, "Sorry, no. I'm busy." I was really going to 7-11 to get a scratchy ticket and a snack for later, so I suppose that was much more important than getting mugged or raped by this fuck.

How stupid is this fool? Duh, oh sure, person-I-just-met! I'll follow you to somewhere and "help" you by handing over all my money and free will. Asshole. Is anyone really going to fall for this? This guy had scumbag written all over him, so I really doubt he was out to fetch a kitten from a tree or free child slave labourers. And why ask me? Why the skinny little girl and not a dude? Probably because a dude would beat his midget ass down if he tried anything. But really, do I look that green?

This leads to a greater problem I have with people: they see my youthful face and assume I'm a dumb kid. I've been to friggin' London by myself. Twice. I've driven in a strange U.S. city. I've got four years of post-secondary up my sleeve and I've worked in customer service long enough to suss out the douchebags from the kind folks.

I'm not stupid as you seem to think I look. And I'm not getting in your car, because you're obviously more stupid than you look, assface.

-Girl on the Corner (fending off the CHUDs and the douchebags)

How things get their names: Prince Island Park

Buried within the metal heart of downtown Calgary, there is an island that serves as a verdant sanctuary from the intimidatingly phallic buildings that define the city’s corporate core. It floats there in the Bow River, tethered to the city with bridges but otherwise seemingly disinterested in the machinations of commerce and power occurring a few scant blocks away. Indeed, it seems ready to float away to some balmier, more hospitable clime, and while I enjoyed the hospitality of the island during the Calgary Folk Music Festival this past July, I also cautiously eyed the bridges for those first groans and cracks that would signify Prince Island’s great escape.

Curious readers might wonder about the origin of the name Prince Island, and I am all too happy to indulge your spirit of inquiry. Many rumours abound as to source of the island’s name, each surely speaking to some obscure truth lost to history. In fact, the festival was rife with speculation. For instance, some claim the island was renamed for the musician Prince during the mid-eighties in an attempt to lure the man to take up residence there—all part of a poorly conceived scheme to resurrect the city’s then-struggling, now-vanished velvet industry. However, it should be noted this story never makes it past the beer garden fence.

A somewhat more persuasive explanation is that the island was named after Donald Prince, a tragic 19th century lumber baron (“A prince among men,” his friends liked to say, “and yet still a pauper among women”). Donald was renowned across the whole of the prairies for his knowledge of the forest, while being equally infamous for his ignorance of his loyal wife, Theodosia.

Born in England, Theodosia had braved the journey to the colonies out of necessity, not desire, though she had resolved to make the most of her life there. As an opera singer of some regard in London, she would have been content to live the cosmopolitan life until her last strangled note, but the sooty air of her rapidly industrializing homeland steadily crippled her voice until that once mighty instrument tooted but a squeak. The fresh air of Canada proved to be a balm for her strained voice, and she salvaged her song, even though none in the fresh, uncultured land cared to hear her sing it.

The marriage had come about largely due to the persistence of Theodosia—she had snuck into the life of the perpetually distracted Donald by first posing as a maid, then a cook, and finally a lumberjack, felling a mighty pine tree and then revealing her true identity to the stupefied Donald, who proposed on the spot, so stunned was he by her superb axmanship—and the union continued due only to her dedication. The man’s fortune accumulated at an astounding rate, huge piles of bills molding and coins rusting in the mildewed corners of his mansion. But Theodosia cared not one whit to spend the rotten money, for it was that most precious commodity—time—which Donald hid away from her. Neglected by her love, Theodosia took to shadowing Donald on his walks into the forest, passing the time by whistling tunes to the birds, her only appreciative audience in this rude country.

Donald treated the forest with a reverence and intimacy typically reserved for lovers. He could tell the age of a tree just by lightly caressing the bark, while a birthmark in the shape of Italy on his wife’s lower back remained foreign territory to him. Blindfolded, he could note the type of tree just by the odor of its leaves, while the fragrant scent of his wife’s delicate farts—which, as befitting a lady, smelled only of hyacinths floating on a creek in summer—passed unremarked every Wednesday after their weekly chili night.

And so it came to pass that he would lose his wife through his own carelessness, while chopping trees—his favourite hobby, which he often pursued in the woods around their home. So forgetful of his wife, Donald cut a tree without considering that his lonely wife might be out there in the woods, singing to her birds. The tree cut her down in one blow, and the stunned Donald realized with horror his loss.

Atonement was in order. He took to the island in the Bow River and proceeded to clear it with his bare hands, tearing up trees by the roots and causing others to wither and die with his tears, salted to the point of poison with self-loathing. Next, he built a stage on his lonely little island, and each night he sat before it, waiting for the ghost of his wife to return and perform her music to a dedicated audience.

None were permitted onto the island, save for Donald, so who knows what he saw there each night? But people on the banks of the river reported an unearthly sound of unbearable sadness drifting across the water each night. Perhaps it was the voice of the dead Theodosia, or perhaps—more plausibly—the sorrowful lamentation of Donald himself. When he died, he was buried beneath the stage and the island named in his honour. Area residents still notice that ghostly song some nights, save for those four tranquil evenings in late July, when the Calgary Folk Music Festival comes to the island and the joyous tunes calm Donald’s restless spirit—or simply drown out his keening cry.

Waiting at the Greyhound station, again

I was waiting in line at the Greyhound station, sweating through the summer heat but still unflagging in my excitement to hit the road and enter that strange land that lay a few scant hours drive to the south. I was heading to Calgary—for the first time in my life, in fact—in order to attend the Calgary Folk Music Festival. It promised to be a delightful weekend, filled with wonderful music, but one thing stood in my way—Greyhound itself.

Need it even be said? The wait was excruciating. Behind me, a woman from Quebec was talking in fractured English to two other passengers, resulting in a bizarre multi-lingual parody of an Abbott and Costello routine as they tried to decipher whether or not she lived east or west of Montreal. At first I thought they simply did not grasp the distinction between “est” and “ouest,” but as the wait dragged on it seemed more likely they were just stretching out the pointless conversation in order to pass the time.

The boredom was broken by a crash coming from somewhere behind us. An angry man cursed loudly as he stormed out of the station. He had kicked over a magazine rack for some unknown reason, and two security guards followed him into the street.

The initial confrontation took place right outside the doors of the Greyhound station, but we—the bored passengers standing in line and drinking up this excitement like a parched man discovering a bottle of water in desert—couldn’t hear a word that was said, despite voices obviously being raised. Still, we could see that the angry man had puffed up his chest in the international sign of “You wanna go, huh?” For their part, the guards were not about to be scared off, and one pointed up at what was presumably a security camera, daring the man to make a move.

The angry man—a fairly thick young dude in a printed t-shirt (which I believe is the international sign for “I’m a douchebag and drive a big truck”)—started to walk away, but the guards followed, apparently goading him to pick a fight. A block of pay phones and arcade machines blocked our view from inside the station, but when they reappeared on the other side of the obstruction, one of the security guards had the man in a headlock and the duo was grappling in the street.

At this point the security guard who had been rifling through our carry-on luggage for knives and nuclear warheads bolted outside to help his colleague, leaving our already late bus to wait a little longer. I believe this is what is known as a “routine delay” at the downtown Edmonton Greyhound station.

A customer service agent not interested in street wrestling finished searching our bags and sniffing our beverage bottles for booze (“Do you want to smell my water?” I offered helpfully, but she declined for some reason). Tensions were starting to build. Most of us had been in line for almost an hour, and the mood was starting to simmer with the suppressed rage of boredom. The bus driver was threatening to refuse to allow a large family on the bus because their baby was crying. He relented, but only after making it clear that he was only tolerating their presence on the bus out of the generosity of his heart, and not because they had paid for a ticket or anything like that. An old woman was caught smuggling nail clippers and a book of matches onto the bus and had to put them in her luggage going underneath the bus. Disaster narrowly averted again. Can you imagine those headlines? “Grandmother of five beheads bus passenger, sets fire to corpse.” Sorry, psycho. You’ll just have to nap or watch “Bedazzled” instead.

(Actually, scratch that last bit. Greyhound stopped playing movies on their buses a while back, presumably for fear of overstimulating their numbed clientele. After the combination of boredom and discomfort that is the bus station experience, the company expects its ridership to sit in a respectfully catatonic state. Or perhaps Greyhound was too cash-strapped to afford a membership at Blockbuster any longer.)

All that remained was to board the bus and head out on my adventure into the strange world (which I was starting to think could not be any stranger than this bus station). More trouble was in the air, however. The driver called everyone going to Red Deer to board, as they were running out of space and couldn’t fit everyone in the line. I was left five people back in line, eyeing the others as if we were passengers on the Titanic staring at the last life raft and contemplating whether to draw straws or just push your way through.

The driver came back after boarding the Red Deer crowd and said there was room for one more. And with that said, the person at the front of the line jumped into the life raft, beat back our flailing hands with an oar, and said goodbye suckers, leaving us to swim with the icebergs.

This was really the Greyhound experience at its purest—the always present sense of mild chaos, of anger and discomfort restrained by a bureaucratic system so expertly devised to demean and dehumanize that even the Soviets would have been jealous. How dare we defile Greyhound’s fine buses with our foul, stinking humanity! We should be grateful they even let us in the station. I made the mistake of asking if I could get a refund, which elicited only condescension from the customer service agent who pointed to the words “non-refundable” on my ticket and then carefully explained with a weary sigh that this is what the ticket says, as if I couldn’t read.

I was tempted to point out the part of the ticket that says “July 24, 2009, 1:30 to Calgary,” and to explain how I understand that the tickets say non-refundable, but if Greyhound can't hold up their end of the bargain (i.e., allowing me to board a bus at the agreed upon date and time), then surely the obligation lies with them…ah, but I stopped myself. Explaining the concept of customer service to a customer service agent would surely only irritate her, just as her assumption that I’m a sub-literate goon irritated me as a professional proofreader. This is a road that ends with me in a headlock in the middle of the street, while the drunks in the parking lot across the way cheer us on and place bets with bottle caps. Thanks, but no thanks.

Instead, I called a coworker who was going to Calgary later that day and arranged to hitch a ride (thanks Lilly!), thus sparing me the prolonged agony of the Greyhound experience. And so I left behind me the bus station and the dark future it promised. No street fights, no searches, no penny-ante dictators lording their meagre authority over the hapless, helpless, and hopeless fools who have the gall to give them money in exchange for a service—I would just have to settle for comfort and convenience instead. C'est la vie.

The eyes have it...

The final chapter!

SATURDAY (cont'd)
At this point, you're probably wondering why I would want to go ahead with a silly old roadtrip. It's part one of a three-trip month, that's why! So Calgary is pretty much a practice. And I suppose it's good to get the shitty trip out of the way before the others come along, because they'll be much more awesome.

So now I had my eye drops and everybody had eaten and we were almost to Calgary. We drove toward my boyfriend's buddy's house, figuring we still had time for a pre-concert nap and supper. No, his friend may as well live in Airdrie, because we drove into the city to practically drive out of it again. It was a half-an-hour of urban sprawl. And to make it even better, our hotel was in the opposite direction!

But we had his GPS and Garmin ensured us that we would get to the hotel with enough time to check in and shower. But once we checked in and chose our beds, I asked Elle where Hawksley Workman was performing at -- after all, she ordered the tickets, so she would know. But no, neither of us had a clue where Flames Central was and when we punched the name of the place into Garmin, it didn't know either! So we tried the old fashioned way of searching the phone book -- and it wasn't in there either. I called the front desk and asked for the address, which the concierge had to google. When I punched the coordinates into Garmin, it still couldn't find this place.

Elle: "I think it's like the Saddledome or Pengrowth."

Me: "I don't think Hawksley's fanbase calls for a big venue. He's more of an intimate-club guy."

One last time on Garmin before deciding to give up, the address popped up and we were about 15 minutes from the location. Sweet! But Elle didn't want to miss the will-call pickup time and we had to head over immediately. No shower to wash off that hospital smell for me. :(

We arrive there early and decide to grab a quick bite at the McDonald's across the way, but no monster meal, because we're going to order a pizza to the room and watch late-night TV. In the McDonald's, a cashier frees up and a short, stumpy Australian woman burlies ahead of me and Elle. When I call her on the fact that I was next, she makes it seem like I don't know what I'm doing. Jesus Christ, lady -- just 'cause you're in Canada doesn't mean you can be rude to the Canadians. But she was a bitch all the way around, because we watched as she got her food and she opened every box and wrap at the till to check that the cashier didn't do the old switcheroo on her precious quarter-pounder. I think she doubly pissed me off because she was just another friggin' tourist with a belly pack and one of those ridiculous Stampede, boot-scoot-boogyin' 10 gallon hats. I don't care if it's the Stampede -- if it's not 1880 or you're not a cowboy, don't wear the hat.

Sorry, I'm a little off track. Well, we made it to the Hawksley concert. Read my review here. And fall in love with the Library Voices here.

Hawksley went long. Too long. My eyes and body hurt from adventures at the hospital. As we drive out of the parking lot, I end up driving Elle's car down the wrong side of the road! I pull a quicky u-turn and we search frantically for a sign that says no right turns. Surprise, there isn't one. I guess on a relatively empty street in a strange city, I'm supposed to just know this. And Garmin was being too slow to pick up on the satellites. By the time we're at the hotel, we're too tired to even take our shoes off, let alone order a pizza.

SUNDAY
By the next morning, I get up early for the complimentary breakfast. Elle may as well be dead to the world, so I have a quick shower, hoping she'll wake up while I'm at it. No, she's still asleep. So I rest my eyes and once she wakes up and is ready, we have about 30 minutes of free breakfast left. So it wasn't the freshest, but it was much needed after a day of road food.

We head off to the zoo. This time Elle drives and we get there with no problems, thanks to Garmin and clear heads. There was no line to get in and parking was free. We see a skunk and baby mule deer(s) (there was two, but the plural of deer doesn't show well here). There's a baby moose and the grizzly bear is out and about. We even see the koalas and watch the manta rays in their (former-)touch pool. Then we chillax with a cool slush and by this time it's 3:30 and we've seen everything we could possibly see.

I text my boyfriend that we'll pick him up at 5pm, sooner than we said we would. He said that works, because he and his buddy are just leaving the Stampede for home. Excellent. After a brief look through the gift shop we head to the car. Elle gives me her keys to make the long drive out to the buddy's house and then I notice something odd.

Me: "Elle, did you forget to lock your door?"

Elle: "What, no-ohmygodletmeinletmein!!!"

Some degenerate fuckface broke into Elle's car! Well, broke is a bad word, because she drives a late model Honda, which pretty much any thief has a "key" to. He just snapped the lock open with no damage. Except fuckface got into the glovebox and stole my boyfriend's beloved Garmin and Elle's iPod! I start bawling and Elle looks completely dejected.

Elle: "That's all I had left. I have no job, I have no iPod."

Me: (sniffle, sob) "We have to call the police. I have to call Ken. He can come get us."

Elle: "They can't take my birthday!"

We call Ken, but his buddy won't come get us. Instead, his buddy's wife gives me directions while I'm bawling like a fool. I don't want to help myself, woman! I want to go home and curl into a ball and try to remember the world before I was poked at, sleep-deprived, eye-cootied and made a victim of cowardly crime.

But no, we manage to find our way back despite being without poor Garmin (at least the crackhead who stole it didn't have to blow anyone that night to get their fix. Fuckface). I am completely miserable, but my usually down in the dumps companion is surprisingly in control.

Elle: "It's funny. I bought that iPod when I started at [the place that sacked me]. The day after I lose my job, I lose my iPod. It's funny. But they can't take my birthday!"

When we get to Ken, he's not upset at all. Easy come, easy go. Garmin was acquired illegally from a co-worker of his dad and bought at a too-good-to-be-true price for the fancy GPS. It's the circle of (criminal) life.

After that, the trip home was marginally better. But I know one thing's for sure: Don't leave anything in your glovebox that you're even remotely fond of. And don't buy a pop-and-unlock Honda. And don't see Hawksley Workman unless you're well rested. And don't attempt a roadtrip weekend that starts at the hospital. Seriously.

The end...or is it...?

Yeah, it is. ;)

-Girl on the Corner (hoping for a better vacation in B.C.)

The eyes have it...

...a bad case of hospitalitis

I didn't intend to make a scene. I was just so pissed off, but it did get the attention of the three nurses and the mother of them all: Donna.

Nurse Donna took one look at this blubbering baby and assumed control of the situation. She compiled my paperwork, barked orders to the other nurses and took me back to the opthamalogy area I was meant to be at at 10. By this time all the seats were taken, but I was too pissed off to want to sit nicely. I wanted to stand and cross my arms and tap my foot. You know, be a bitch.

Donna: "Hmm, all the seats are taken..."

Me: (still blubbering) "I don't care. I can stand."

Donna: (to me) "No, have a seat." (barking to everyone else) "Anyone who's not a patient can stand over here. We have patients that need to sit."

Immediately 10 spots were vacated and I sat down. Donna leaves. Another nurse comes by and tells the standers to sit.

Person: "That nurse told us the seats are for patients only."

New Nurse: "Donna just... I'm just making sure everybody goes in the order they came here in." (glances at me)

Thanks, new nurse. Now I was even angrier. I had a flipping appointment! I was here first! Bitch bitch bitch!

No sooner had she said that, then the opthamalogist summoned me in. And I kinda felt like a jerk. There were people here wearing patches and dark glasses, and I was going ahead of them. I wasn't supposed to be here.

As the doctor looked me over, she asked why I was upset. And I told the story again. She explained that the opthamalogy unit is usually just for the folks staying in the hospital or the ones who've had eye surgery. Most cases go to the eye clinic, but that the referring doctors never seem to understand that the clinic is closed on the weekends. So she gets all their patients, making Saturday mornings insanely busy. To top it off, Donna and the gaggle of nurses at the Unit 22 desk kept mixing up the order of patients.

Dr. Cool Chick: "How old are you?"

Me: (snifling) "Twenty-five."

Wow, nothing grounds you like saying your age while you're sobbing like a useless baby. Apparently she needed to know my age to make sure I'm not a candidate for juvenile rheumatoid arthritis. She looked into my eyes, then let one of her interns take a look. The intern mumbled something about seeing "cells." Eew. In both eyes, not just the owie one. Eew.

Then I got the dilating drops so she could check the back of my eyes in about 20 minutes. So to kill time, I was going to get some further tests done. Dr. Cool Chick explained that it looks like I've got iritis, think arthritis in your eyeball (watch out, proofers! This is why your benefits should cover vision!). And since I hadn't had any eye surgery or taken a baseball bat to the face, they have to assume I have some underlying medical problem trying to make itself known through my eyeball.

Back to the desk at Unit 22, my pupils as big as black saucers and getting bigger every minute, I reunited with Elle and Donna. Donna orders one of her nurses to take me to get an x-ray (to check whether or not my spine has fused together) and then I'm supposed to get blood tests. From Unit 22 down to the x-ray unit, the burdoned nurse explains that it's not in her job description to lead people around, but what Donna says is law and she doesn't want to cause trouble.

At the x-ray unit, there is no one around and the lights are off. Figures.

Me: "Figures."

Burdoned Nurse: "This is weird. There should be someone here."

Me: "This has been my whole day."

So the friggin' nurse has to ask for directions! Ha! Take that, bee-yatch! Then it's back to the emergency area to get x-rayed in there. Four people lying in pain on hospital beds go first. Thankfully. I didn't want to cut ahead of any emergency cases. So Elle and I waited for about 30 to 40 minutes and then I got to have my first x-ray since I was in junior high. Of course, I hadn't planned to get x-rayed this day and wore my comfy roadtrip pants with the metal buttons on the waist line. So adding insult to injury, I had to drop my pants for the x-ray ladies.

After that, it was a breeze. We skipped the return to Unit 22 and found the lab test area. They took six vials of blood out of me!

Blood Doc: "This is nothing. I once took 30 vials out of one patient."

Me: "I bet you like that story, because you can tell it to people like me who think they're getting a lot out of them."

Now the blood is done and we return to Unit 22. Donna welcomes us back, double checks with us both that I did all the tests. We tell her yes and then I'm back to see Dr. Cool Chick. She checks my eyes and confirms that it is iritis and gives me a prescription of steroid eye drops and eye ointment for nighttime. Just like I wanted in the first place!

Before we're free, I have to face one more test: the tuberculosis skin test. Donna sits me down and says straight up that it's going to hurt, don't touch it, come back in 48 hours. Don't touch it. I can't even put a Band-Aid over it 'cause it could screw with the test results. Don't touch it. But I'm really afraid I'll forget it's there and I'll scratch it by accident. Don't touch it.

It pinches a bit less than the blood test, so I think Donna was trying to make it seem worse than it really was. Damn reverse psychology!

A pat on the back and many thank yous later, Elle and I run away from the hospital. But I will be forced to return Monday to check my TB test and see another eye specialist for the next-to-final word. Picking up my much-needed eye drops, Timbits and my worried-sick boyfriend, we head for Calgary.

Now we're on easy street... Or are we?

The eyes have it...

...the iris strikes back

The next morning, packed for Calgary and a quick stop at the eye clinic, I pick up my pal Elle. I come in the door jibber-jabbering about how fun the weekend is going to be. As she hoists her bag over her shoulder, she tells me she's been laid off.

Apparently, her dipshit boss wouldn't even sit in on the firing and had a sales rep and the art director do it. And Elle had conveniently finished all her projects that same day. Hmm... I guess the only good thing is that she'd been sick of this place since they imposed mandatory "beach days" (one forced, unpaid day-off per week) and suggested cutting back salaries 10%. Why don't they just beat a puppy in front of everyone? That'll get morale moving.

So because she was sick of this BS for a long-time coming, she'd already started resume dropping, her parents had offered her money for rent or food and she seemed fairly relieved that the ordeal was over. No more fussing with idiots who can't communicate and are driving a perfectly good company into the ground.

We arrived at the hospital that houses the eye clinic. I complained about the lame Dr. LePuke and she her lame-ass former boss, but were in good spirits. After all, we were going to see Hawksley Workman that night and were damned well going to have a rockin' girls' weekend.

But when we get to the eye clinic at the appointed time, 10 a.m., it's locked up tight. I call the information line at the front doors, because God forbid someone should be manning the reception desk at a hospital.

Information Lady: "Oh, the eye clinic is closed on Saturday."

Me: "But the on-call doctor made me an appointment today. Would Dr. H. be in another part of the hospital? He might be waiting to see me."

Information Lady: "Good question. You could try going to Emergency. If they don't know there, you could try Unit 22."

Me: (gulp!) "Emergency?"

Elle and I head for the Emergency ward. I hadn't been in emergency since I broke my toe many, many years ago. And that was in a much nicer, suburban-area hospital which only saw broken arms, bad coughs and maybe a stomach ache. At the downtown hospital, I swear I saw a drug dealer. Others were having heart attacks, hacking their lungs out or rolling around drunkenly in a wheel chair with his arm wrapped up like a mummy.

All I wanted were some eye drops!

Elle took one look around and raced outside. So there I stood, alone in the emergency room line, simply waiting for directions. You don't cut in front of the heart attack guy for directions.

When it was my turn to see the nurse at the desk, she told me to go to the mysterious Unit 22 and again said that the eye clinic is closed on the weekend. No shit. I may not know where I'm going, but I know damned well that Dr. LePuke booked me for the f-[gratuitious language] eye clinic.

Up in the Unit 22 and reunited with Elle, I explain again to a brand new nurse what the situation is: Dr. LePuke, appointment, eye clinic, information desk, emergency, Unit 22. She smiles and leads me around to the opthamalogy area, where two opthamalogists are checking patients with cataracts, glaucoma -- you name it, you don't want it. But I have an appointment! I get to jettison ahead of these 20 other people! Woo-hoo!

Nurse: "Do you have your paperwork?"

Me: "What paperwork? I didn't get any papers."

Nurse: "You'll have to go back to the other desk or go back to Admitting."

Admitting? I was never there. Or at least there was no one at the desk I went to. What is this Admitting?

Blood boiling I returned to the Unit 22 desk, where three nurses fluttered back and forth. I have an appointment! Elle checks the time. We should have been in Calgary by now, visiting the zoo animals and laughing at Calgarians.

Me: "We should just fucking leave. This is ridiculous. If this is so serious..."

Elle: "Did you want to go? We're already here."

Me: "Let's go."

My feet don't move, but I manage to move around the desk and look away from Elle. I can't stand it anymore. Half my day is already gone, because the on-call doctor is a fool, I keep getting the runaround, the Unit 22 nurses are ignoring me, I'm tired and my eye is sore and I don't know what's wrong with me and I had to stand in that scary emergency room with people with real problems and--

Then the waterworks came. I haven't cried in a long time. And this wasn't a sad cry. I'm just an emotional crier (happy, sad, angry -- it's all the same). This time I was pissed off.

(To be continued...)

The eyes have it...

...uveitis that is.

This was supposed to be my weekend of Calgary fun and immediately spiralled into a hellish trip. Well, maybe not hellish. I was told several times by my travel companion that you have to take the good with the bad. This is the story of the rollercoaster weekend.

FRIDAY
It began since last Sunday. My right eyeball was pink and sore with every movement. But it wasn't pink eye. I've had pink eye with every bad flu and this wasn't it. By Friday morning and no sign of the storm breaking, I took the morning off from work and journeyed down to the medicentre. My beloved Dr. Zed would never be the available on-call doctor, and as I predicted, I was stuck with the abominable Dr. LePuke (that's not his name, but it kinda sounds like it). All I would need were some industrial-strength eye drops.

After waiting the standard 45 minutes, I went into the examination room. LePuke came in shortly after, just as the infected ear poster was starting to get to me. I told him my symptoms and he repeated them back to me.

LePuke: "You might have iritis. It's an inflammation."

Me: "Okay-"

LePuke: "I'll make you an appointment at the Royal Alex's eye clinic."

What what what?! A hospital? I don't want to go there.

The nurse gives me the appointment date, which I figured would be the following week (say this day here). No, it was Saturday at 10 a.m. -- when my pal and I would be touring the Calgary Zoo, looking for baby animals and ice cream. This eye thing had to be more serious than I thought.

Me: "B-but I'm supposed to be in Calgary tomorrow morning. Can you reschedule?"

Nurse: "Well, that's the appointment. You should probably go."

Me (now bawling like a fool because Dr. LePuke didn't seem to want to explain what this weird "iritis" is and its severity and my weekend is suddenly ruined): "Is-is what I have serious?"

Nurse: "You should probably go."

Bitch! Bastard! Thank you, medicentre staff, for informing me of what I might have. I forgot that all regular joes on the street should know what this odd condition is with the flip of an iPhone.

All I wanted were some industrial-strength eye drops and now I had to see an eye specialist.

(To be continued...)

FUN GAME TIME

Fellow writers on this blog:
Here are your instructions:
Read my answers then answer them yourselves.


What is your current obsession?
A friend of mine lent me Seasons one and two of the show “Weeds.” It’s a good one and I really want to see Season three now. It’s becoming impossible to keep myself from looking up what happens next on the internet. Hurry up, friend of mine, and get Season three back from your grandma.

What is your weirdest obsession?
Oh geez. This is a tough one. Having always been known for my lack of obsessive/compulsive behaviour, you’d be hard pressed to find something weird that I’m obsessed with. Like the time I added a new picture frame to my mantle and had to get up no less than 30 times to move it a quarter of an inch so it would be in the exact right place. Or the fact that I have to eat two cheerios at a time—never a odd number; it’s not fair to the single cheerios to be eaten without the comfort of a friend. See, perfectly normal.

What are you wearing today?
Right now I’m wearing my running shorts and my new t-shirt from the Fallen Four Marathon relay.

What’s for dinner?
So far I’ve had a couple of pieces of garlic toast and a melted Crave cupcake. Later, after my meeting, I will have some sweet potato fries.

What would you eat for your last meal?
If it was my very last meal, then I’d just eat everything I could until I exploded. Seriously I’ve got nothing to lose by that point. There’s no reason to stick to any sort of diet. I would just eat and eat and eat. Probably I wouldn’t eat any tomatoes though.

What’s the last thing you bought?
Teacher gifts. I totally forgot about them until the day after school ended. Luckily, just because the students are done doesn’t mean that the teachers are done, so we were still able to get the presents to the teachers.

What are you listening to right now?
”Fairly Odd Parents” and the sound of someone eating with his mouth open which is driving me NUTS.

If you could have a house totally paid for, fully furnished anywhere in the world, where would you like it to be?
I’m good right here. But if I had all that extra money from having my house fully paid for, I would probably travel a lot more.

If you could go anywhere in the world for the next hour, where would you go?
Like if I could just magically be somewhere and not have to worry about packing or getting to the airport and stuff? Probably I would chose to spend that hour in Greece hanging out with my old boss that moved there. Or inspecting an old castle. Or…too many choices. I can’t decide.

Which language do you want to learn?
All of them. But I wouldn’t want to actually work at it. I’d just want to magically know them.

What is your favorite colour?
This has always hit me as a ridiculous question. How can you decide that? I always really liked sunshiny yellow, but I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing it. So when you ask “what is your favourite colour?” do you mean to look at? To wear? To paint your bathroom? Cause they’re all different answers.

What is your favorite piece of clothing in your own wardrobe?
I have a t-shirt I bought at Superstore that I just love. I wish I would’ve known I was going to love it so much; I would have bought more.

What is your dream job?
Society wife. I would do well sleeping in every morning, getting up and going to luncheons, being on committees, going to fancy balls…

What’s your favourite magazine?
Tough decision…Alberta Construction Magazine, Oilweek, Oil & Gas Inquirer, Oilsands Review.

If you had £100 now, what would you spend it on?
That’s C$190.98. That just about pays my football team fees.

Describe your personal style.
I’m not sure I really have one. I wear whatever looks half decent.

What are you going to do after this?
Design a brochure for football. It’s going to be lame though, because the volunteer PR girl had a little bit of a tantrum when my brochure was better than her’s so she made us change it. Who knew that football was such a dramatic sport?

What are your favourite films?
White Christmas, Heart and Souls, Imitation of Life, RENT, and Singing in the Rain

What’s your favourite fruit?
Nectarine

What inspires you?
Mostly other moms. Ones that “have it all together.” The kind that have nice kids, volunteer, work full time, have time for their friends, and are still nice people. That’s who I strive to be.

Do you collect anything?
Not on purpose. I seem to have a collection of journals (very few of which I write in for fear of wrecking them), and note cards. Oh, and books.

Your favourite animal?
I don’t think it’s a secret that I’m not an animal lover. If I had to choose, I’d say the giraffe. Cause it looks cool.

What are you currently reading?
The Scarlet Letter

Go to your book shelf, take down the first book with a red spine you see, turn to page 26 and type out the first full sentence:
We are very grateful indeed to Mr. Grundy, Mr. Attery Squash, the Blue Baboon, Mr. Pobble, Lola Vavoom and of course the Dong, who so generously agreed to entertain us with his luminous nose.
The Big Over Easy – Jasper Fforde

By what criteria do you judge a person?
Mostly personality…

What skill would you like to acquire immediately?
You know those people who only get, like, four hours of sleep a night and they are always perfectly rested and always get so much done. I’d like to develop that skill.

The miserable cow

Some of you might have noticed my Facebook status this week saying "....doesn't understand people sometimes" and "...can only shake her head and walk away." Let me tell you how all this started, so you might want to fill your coffee cups up (or tea), and sit down.

My neighbors, we'll call them Carrie and Robert. They got married a few years ago while they were both up to their arm pits in debt. They both had student loans and other loans. Their parents help them buy the house. All fine and dandy right? There's nothing wrong with the situation so far, right? There ain't no shame in your folks helping you out. K, so on with the background. They keep making huge purchases that they really can't afford. Robert will brag that it was this much or this big or whatever guys brag about. I let it go in one ear and out the other.

Last year got Carrie pregnant. She was a miserable cow. I passed it off as it being hormones. It seemed like every day Robert was at our house venting because he was in the "dog house" for just breathing. She was always complaining how they're broke, but yet she went shopping just about every day!

So, now that the warm weather is upon us everyone is outside working on their houses and yards. We're building a garage and Al needed help putting the shingles on the roof. So Robert offered to help since Al helped Robert build his deck in one weekend. Al was over there all day working on it with him. K, so here's the time line of last weekend.

Friday night: my neighbor (Carrie's best friend) was having a purse party. I didn't go because I had an article to work on. Besides, I didn't want to buy any fake Prada, Gucci, or Louis Vuitton. Robert was supposed to show up at 2pm to help Al. I get home at about 4:30 and no Robert. He finally shows up at about 6pm. Robert and Al leave to go get a few things from Home Depot and I can see Carrie smoking and talking on the phone. I had my front window open and I can hear her yelling at the person on the other end: "You need to hurry up and get home!" Can you guess who she was talking to?
So, the two men come back and start working on the roof of the garage. Carrie comes storming over and shoves the baby monitor in Robert's chest and says "you're watching Lucas tonight!"
My opinion: Couldn't she have waited until Robert came back to the house? It's not like the purse party was on the other side of town--it was across the street!

Saturday: Robert shows up early in the morning to help. He has to leave a little after lunch because they're going down to Calgary for a few days. He gets a call on his cell from Carrie (because apparently it's too far to walk across the street). She's mad and doesn't understand why he has to help Al and she has to do everything on her own.
My opinion: She's a selfish, self-centered bia-bia. My husband helped her husband for an entire weekend to build their stupid deck. What's she got to do on her own? Pack the baby stuff? Pack her stuff? She shouldn't have stayed out all night last night drinking and acting like a fool.

Tuesday: Robert comes over to say that Carrie hates the deck and that she doesn't like the color of the cedar. She doesn't like the red/orange undertones. Cedar is supposed to look like that! So, she sends Robert to the store to pick up a stain with some color. She hates it. So, I go with Al over to our other neighbor's house (two doors down from Carrie and Robert) to see their garage and to see Carrie and Robert's deck. She only has a few boards left to stain on the 12x14 deck and then it's all done. We go over to look and she's complaining to Robert while we're standing there, doesn't say hi to us, says "I'm going to the gym," slams the sliding glass door to where the kitchen window shook, and doesn't say "bye."
My opinion: You never EVER EVER send a man to pick something out with color. They only see in the six Windows default colors. Anyways, didn't she and Robert pick out the deck? Didn't she see the wood then? She would've seen it when it was delivered BEFORE they built it. Also, if you got a stain wouldn't you test it on something other than the deck first? And if she didn't like it why did she keep on staining the deck?!

And some other wonderful points about Carrie: she's making Robert buy her a $2k diamond ring, she made him buy her a Coach purse, and she wants Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses. AND she wants to start "working" on another baby this winter. These people have already had to re-mortgage their house. She's still on maternity leave and she's complaining about how their broke.

Oh! And everytime they get something new they always mention how much it costs or how big it is. It's like they're playing the "keeping up with the Jones'" game with us but we're not playing. Carrie had always admired my Coach purse, so she had to get one. Robert is always bragging to Al he has something bigger or more expensive (which the only thing he has on Al is the tv). I'm sick of hearing them talk about money. I never really hung out with Carrie before because something about her rubbed me the wrong way but I could never put my finger on it. Now I know what it is.

I know I shouldn't "fall in the trap," but if they want to play this game then I'll join just to be a bigger bia-bia than Carrie. She has messed with the wrong person after what she said Saturday. GAME ON SISTA!!

b. May 29, 1949

In the toy store, he presses every single button on every single toy and then giggles like a little kid.

He bakes all the muffins and shortbread cookies. He makes more cookies for Christmas than they would ever need at their Open House. This is to account for the ones that will inexplicably disappear out of the freezer beforehand.

He rarely read me stories. Instead he made up cool adventures about a kid named Bartholomew Snuffenhouser.

When we go for a run, he always tucks in his shirt and pulls up his socks. Then waits for me to say, “You are NOT leaving the house looking like that.” Then he giggles like a little kid.

He always made sure to tuck me in whenever he came home from work—whether it was 10 at night or 4 in the morning.

He only answers the phone if Mom’s not home, no matter where she is in the house or what she’s doing.

When I’m sad or frustrated, he’s the only person in the world that can make me cry just by looking at me.

When I told him I was pregnant, he looked confused, and said “but I’m not old enough to be a grandpa.” He seems fine with it now.

I got a brand new manual typewriter for my 10th birthday. Him and I had daily correspondence for the longest time on a roll of toilet paper. (It was endless and cheaper than paper—he is, after all, Scottish.)

All my friends are jealous of the relationship I have with him. He’s my running partner; he’s there whenever we need him; he’s someone who believes in me no matter what I’m trying to accomplish.

Happy birthday Dad.

The Secret Life of Herman, My Beard

To my great surprise, I only became a man in my 26th year of living, when I happened to grow a beard. Until this point, I had been but an undeveloped naïf unschooled in the ways of the world—essentially an adolescent.

Flung suddenly into the adult world, I was ignorant of the ramifications of this facial hair. In my naïve state, I thought it would be a disguise, like putting on a wig and sunglasses. Surely no one would recognize me. “Who is that bearded guy who looks kind of like Joe?” they would ask, at which point I would laugh and say, “Aha! It is me!” And we would all share a laugh about my remarkable disguise and then carry on with our lives. It would be a good trick at parties, and that’s all.

With that expectation in mind, I grew it during a week off of work. Near the end of the week, I was rather disappointed when I ran into a coworker who recognized me immediately without even the slightest hint of uncertainty. Was it me or just a brilliant disguise? Nope, it was just me.

And at first, this was enough—it was just me with a bit of fuzz on the face. There was some consternation amongst relatives (my mother, too passive aggressive to openly voice her dislike of the beard, simply kept asking me why I had grown it, while my father cautioned me that I would find it hot during summer), but the response was generally supportive. The beard was the missing link in my appearance, and I felt at ease with beard related activities, such as thoughtfully tugging the hairs on my chin while reading Dostoyevsky.

But my new facial hair produced unexpected results. The beard opened the door on a whole realm of masculinity previously barred to me. Many of my male colleagues at work began to engage me in beard discussions—fond reminisces of beards long since shaven but dearly missed, rueful confessions of their own inability to grow respectable facial hair, comparisons of grooming methods. Most often, these conversations occurred in the men’s room. Where once were awkward pauses as we passed each other leaving the bathroom, now there were relaxed exchanges on beard related topics (most common remark: “I bet that thing keeps you warm in winter”).

I bore this all with smiling patience, even as it struck me odd that such conversations almost always had to occur in the bathroom. Apparently, it was only in this inner sanctum of virility that we could broach such masculine topics, freed at last from the endless distractions of the women folk, who presumably would interrupt such manly talk with pickle jars that needed opening or shelves that needed leveling or whatever it was that I was supposed to be doing now that I was a man.

The initial awkwardness of discussing shaving techniques with men thirty years my senior gave way to a deeper, more unsettling anxiety. If they were having this conversation with me solely for the sake of my beard, then what did this say about my own worth? Were they talking to me…or to the beard?

Never before had a feature of my personal appearance defined me. Prior to my bearding, no one discussed my glasses with me, nor my hair, my chin, my cheeks. Friends did not come up to me and ask to feel my face, but they were eager to stroke the new beard. Naturally, I felt a bit jealous. I now realized that before the beard I had been essentially faceless and formless in the eyes of others. If I were to rob a liquor store now, the description on the six o’clock news would make prominent mention of a bearded man. The police sketch would likely show me in a hoodie with the single defining feature of the drawing being the dark beard scribbled in charcoal. But if I had robbed a liquor store in my clean-shaven state, I would have been effectively anonymous. “I can’t explain it,” the confused clerk would have told reporters. “Some clothes floated into the store and emptied the till and then disappeared.”

A colleague repeatedly insisted that every beard should have a name, and so I obliged him and half-jokingly declared that the beard’s name was Herman (my inspiration was the prodigious beard of Herman Melville). But the joke also underlined the sad truth of the matter, which was that my beard was becoming its own self—it was the popular one, while I was the quiet hanger-on, milling about in the background as everyone talked about it. At parties, people were excited to see the beard, and then as an afterthought greeted me. It wasn’t that I had grown a beard, but rather that the beard had seemingly grown me, like some gangly awkward tail it had to drag everywhere.

Had I become enslaved to my beard? Had it come to define me to such a point that I was nothing without it? This sounded like the premise of a ridiculous cheap horror film, or even worse, a wry existential French drama filled with ennui and loathing. But there was a ring of truth to it as well. If I were to shave off this beard, I would be perceived as somehow less of a man than I once was. To shave it would be akin to chopping off an arm (or some other appendage), and people would naturally shun me out of disgust for my self-mutilation. We were chained together, and there was no breaking the bond now, even if I wanted to.

People say never trust a man with a beard, but I say never trust a beard with a man. Who knows what nefarious plots are hatching somewhere at the base of those dark bristles? They resemble a forest at night, where vile schemes can be concocted under the cover of the canopy, where even the brightest moon cannot penetrate to the rotting leaves and dead skin far below. And more than any other reason, that is why I hold on to this beard, my Herman, despite all of these conflicted feelings I have towards it. For if it were not on my face, who knows what trouble it might get up to?

Housekeeping

Here are a few things that piss me off as we go into May (and the rest of summer):

• Motorcycle noise and the ensuing complaints about it. Yes, the motorcyclists are loud jackasses with no respect for your nervous puppy, colicky newborn or near-death grandma. (They probably drive Saturns and sport khakis throughout the rest of the year.) But every year -- EVERY YEAR -- the complaints begin escalating from the tame ("Gosh, those motorcycles are too loud") to mild ("Buddy needs to lose the muffler. Seriously!") to spicy ("I am going to take that jerk-face's Hog and ride it up his ass!"). The complaints turn to angry letters to the local newspapers and eventually death threats toward these weekend Hell's Angels, until Joe Blow is going to whip out his station wagon and take one of them down. For the most part, the bikes are loud so your dumb, minivan-drivin' ass hears them while they're cruising in the lane next to you before you fatally cut them off in traffic.
  

• Swine flu. This is a public health announcement: This little piggy went to Mexico. This little piggy stayed home. This little piggy got swine flu. This little piggy got scared. And THIS little piggy went wee wee wee all the way to quarantine. We can't stop idiots from charging Speedo first into Mexico, but please just wash your hands before, during and after everything you touch. At home and away.

Thank you. That is all.
-Girl on the Corner (using a flu mask for a helmet)

Great Dane

With punk music, there's no in between. You either love it or you hate it.

That's how it works with Dane Cook -- you either love him or you hate him. I would say I love him. I own all his albums, can quote from nearly all his routines and even downloaded a song of his from the magical world of iTunes. As well, I am pants crappingly excited to see him when he comes to perform in town in the next few months. Gear!

I don't, however, love his movies. Unless a cameo in Waiting counts, 'cause that movie is hilarious. His insane, wacky sense of humour (think "BK Lounge" and "Heist/Monkey") doesn't come across in films. He fails as an even remotely convincing actor, despite his leading man looks, the sort Hollywood producers feel the need to possess and exploit -- and why? It's doing nobody a lick of good.

He's cast in the dumbest of plots -- 30-ish slacker tries to win the girl of his dreams by winning a cashier competition (Employee of the Month). A 30-ish slacker tries to win the girl of his dreams by avoiding all romantic entanglements with her for fear she will fall for someone else (Good Luck Chuck). A 30-ish slacker dates the girl of his best friend's dreams to convince her she would be better off in that relationship (My Best Friend's Girl). Those are what I call "falling down comedies," where the writers are so desperate for cheap laughs, they write in some silly bits where the characters inexplicably fall down (think Teri Hatcher in Desperate Housewives).

And dumber still is the plethora of beauties he tangos with: Jessica Simpson, Jessica Alba and Kate Hudson (okay, she's not really dumb, but she kinda had to be to sign up for a Dane Cook movie. Come on! She was in Almost Famous!).

I guess what I'm trying to say is Stop the madness, Dane! Stop making crappy movies! Stop making movies period! And if you try too hard to be funny, you end up being unfunny and then I'm afraid I would have to join my father on the dark side...and hate you.

-Girl on the Corner (craving a chicken sangwich at the BK Lounge)

Wear your helmet!

Natasha Richardson, wife of Liam Neeson, suffered a head injury after she fell during a private ski lesson in Quebec. She wasn't wearing a helmet!

I can't stress enough how important it is to wear a helmet people. There's only a little bit of fluid in your skull cushioning your brain. Most of your know I do news and write for powderroom.net. I can't tell you how many times I've run across articles saying that helmets can save lives. Quebec is thinking of making it the law to wear a helmet no matter how old you are while you're out on the slopes. I've also run across numerous articles where people have fallen off the lifts or had crashes and died of head trauma because they weren't wearing their helmet.

Whether you ski or snowboard or know someone who does, it's important to wear your skull protector. It's not there to make you look like Special Ed from Crank Yankers or block aliens from receiving your brain waves. The helmet is there to protect your head.

Yeah sure she was just taking a lesson, but do you know what it feels like to fall on hard packed snow and ice? The bunny slopes aren't powder. It's hard packed, groomed snow so you can glide. If you fall and hit your head, it's gonna hurt and most likely cause some damage as in Natasha's case.

So, next time whether you, family members, or friends are out on the slopes make sure you wear a helmet!

And the bear emerges

I just wanted to say how happy I am! Spring must be in the air because my fellow Idea Showerarians (?) are returning to the fold. And I began to wonder if maybe creativity is like a bear, hibernating from the cold, dismal conditions outside. And maybe by its emergence, spring is heralded.

Fuck the groundhog. Creativity is the true signal of spring.

I hope we will all submit some blog entry or two this month to celebrate spring. I know my creativity hibernates through the winter months. (I also find that my finances blossom like flowers come the thaw, probably due to tax refunds and fewer holidays). And so I am set to embark on wallowing in the creative mud as spring envelopes me in its loving, warm arms.

Fuck winter.

Wait, did we have a no swearing policy here? Hmm, I must have thought I was back at rockrageous.blogspot.com (shameless plug). How cheeky of me!

Anyway, I was glossing over the "Puddles" side column, enjoying all the wacky tags. Statistically, our top favourite tags include the following:

• Americans (3 tags)
• Canadians (3)
  
• IPod (3)
• Work (3)
  

That's how wacky we are, discussing our music lives and work lives (both constitute a great chunk of our days). And oddly, considering only 16% of our bloggers are American, Canadians and Americans are running at 50/50 tags. The next most tagged topics are:

• farm (2)
  
• news (2)
• stupid people (2)
• travel (2)

And my top 3 personal favourite wacky tags are:

• mustaches
• pigeons
• zombies

The top blog writers by number of blogs written (though it's not a contest, so no pressure!):

• Joe Wet Cow (12)
• Girl on the Corner (8)
• Lilly (7)
• Good Man's Daughter (3)
  
• Nan Eff (2)
• Triptych Chick (0)

Who is Triptych Chick? Will you write with us? Will you shower in the ideas with us? It's much good fun!

-Girl on the Corner (trippin' on Mondays)

Waiting at the Greyhound station

In the past, Greyhound stations were a mess come boarding time. People clustered around the admitting entrances forming lines within lines, a maze of dazed and irritable travelers. Everyone would wait in the seats along the edge of the station until enough people had formed a line at the admitting booth—usually after five or six people had stood up and staked out their position with a phalanx of luggage, the rest of the passengers would flood in, leading to a crushed, deformed line.

Even worse, the lines for the other bus routes would start to blend with your own, making such a mess of things that you would wonder if you were actually boarding the right bus. The secret terror of this moment was not the chaos or the crowds, but the dreadful possibility that you might find yourself stuck somewhere in a town so little known that even the residents don’t know where it is (perhaps they too boarded the wrong bus).

Now, as a result of heightened security measures, we have to form lines. The station security officers scan us for metal and search our carry-on luggage for shampoo, and in order to do this, we must be neatly ordered in rows. The advantage of this new method—aside from staving off the boarding-time panic attacks that I had come to believe were just a natural part of the system—is that instead of nervously watching for people butting in line and making sure I’m not accidentally going to Manitoba, I can actually take in the varied and strange characters that so vitally enrich the Greyhound experience. The following is an example of one such notable person encountered during my last trip:

A man and his young son pull up to the back of a line running parallel to my own, just a couple of feet away from myself. The boy seems to be four or five, the man probably no older than his early 30s. Trying to kill some time and ease his son’s restlessness, the father asks the boy, “Want to dance?” The son nods and so the father pulls out his cell phone, which plays the unmistakable opening chords of AC/DC’s “Back in Black.” The boy stomps along to the music and we all laugh at this four-year-old thrashing along to the song. He begins stomping on father’s feet and the man chastises him, saying, “Hey, don’t dirty daddy’s shoes—I cleaned them for baba, okay?” After the song stops (only the opening portion plays), the man puts his phone away and sighs wistfully, “They just don’t make them like this anymore.”

Another man gets into line behind them and drops his three bags on the floor. He looks at the father’s luggage and realizes that he has forgotten his own tags. “Where do you get those?” he asks, and the father points to the ticket counter, where a long line of fidgeting passengers waits, immobile and anxious. The man picks up his luggage, sighs and trudges off to stand in another line. “I hear you,” the father says as the man walks away, not even listening. “Next time, I’ll pack everything into one bag, right, Jake?” His son looks blankly at him.

“Next time?” he corrects himself. “There won’t be a next time. Never again.” The man with the luggage is long since out of earshot, but the father continues speaking, either to no one or everyone. “Man, losing your license sucks. It’s almost as bad as getting your balls chopped off. No—worse.”

Another man chimes in with a supportive “yeah,” which encourages the father to continue. “One time, one time—and you lose your license. I had two beers, and then as we’re leaving my buddy leaves behind a full beer on the table. I’m like, ‘That’s four bucks! Are you crazy?’ So I down it, and of course there’s a check stop right outside. Two minutes after I leave, and I’m just over the limit. Just barely.”

He shakes his head ruefully as a new passenger comes to stand behind him in the line. This man wears a hoodie and has sideburns that end somewhere just below his jaw line. Distracted by this sight, the father looks over the man approvingly and declares, “Buddy, those are the best sideburns I’ve ever seen. How long did that take you?”

“Oh, I don’t know. They used to be bigger, but I shaved them for work,” the man says diffidently, a little embarrassed but still amiable.

“Ho-lee shit,” the father drawls in amazement. The man with the sideburns laughs at this, but noiselessly, repressing the sound so that it stays in his belly and causes his whole body to shake. The father glances down at his son, who is crouching, tired from standing so long in line. “Hey, Jake,” the father says sternly. “Stand up like a man.”

The boy solemnly pulls himself up to his full height. “That’s a good boy,” the father says, putting his hand on his son's head. “Daddy loves you. Be good.”

Who's watching you?

It seems to be the general consensus that Americans are the most paranoid people on earth. Being an American I'll admit that I'm paranoid part of the time, and I don't take it the extreme as my Canadian neighbor does. When she's on vacation for a FEW DAYS, she'll get someone to check her mail and use a timer for her lights in the house. If I'm gone for two weeks then I'll use the timer for our lights inside, but I don't bother with the mail.

Anyways, with all the talk of "Big Brother," being monitored by the government, illegal immigrants, drug wars on the Mexican/U.S. border, and the economy who isn't gonna be paranoid? I'd be more paranoid about the economy than the others. That's just me though. The U.S. government complains that they don't have enough border patrol agents to police the area. Well, when you get thrown in PRISON for shooting a Mexican drug dealer in the ass who would apply for the job?

I'm a bit off topic again. There's a site where ANYONE can monitor Texas' portion of the border. Like you don't have anything else to do, right? Well, apparently one woman in New York spends four hours a day watching. FOUR HOURS!! That's like four episodes of Lost, a bunch of really long showers including shaving, doing several loads of laundry, half a days work, and eight episodes of My Name Is Earl! If you're a mother of a baby, do you think you have time to devote four hours of your day to watching the border?

All I can say is "WHAT THE F***?!!"

You can check out the full story on CNN. The link to the border watching site is there as well.

What the hell is wrong with you people?

How many times have you struggled with your blanket on the couch, or haven't been able to find anything in your oversized, overstuffed purse? Maybe you have too many wine stains in your white shag carpet. Or you watch TV loud enough to disturb your spouse.

Then you need any easy answer from an informercial!

The informercial is having a sort of renaissance with the massive hit "The Snuggie" (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2xZp-GLMMJ0). This is the blanket alternative for retards who can't use a blanket. What the hell is wrong with you Snuggie-ites?! You're paying $19.99 for a backwards housecoat! But the most loathesome part is the woman struggling under her blanket. It's a blanket, lady -- not Spiderman's webbing. Why fight it like it's made of lead covered in mercury sprinkled with SARs?

Then there are the clips of the folks wrapped happily (wrappily?) in their Snuggies. The family kills me, because it further takes me away from the reality of how amazing the backwards housecoat is and how it brings people together (like a cult). First of all, the family is wearing the same colour. I never wore the same colour as my sibling (even if the alternative was baby crap yellow/brown or pus pink). There's no individuality in their choices and I conclude they're part of a cult of backwards-housecoat wearers who go to blanket burnings in a wooded compound -- just watch the end of the commercial -- it's all laid out for you.

The Sham Wow is one informercial that causes heated discussions at parties. Does it work? Does it not work? And here's what I think: You won't know unless you buy it from the strange man in the headset. Once it arrives in six to eight weeks, it will only work if you truly believe in its power. If your Sham Wow just lays there and sucks up nothing (instead it just plain sucks), clapping your hands like it's Tinkerbell won't bring it to life (unless you truly, truly believe...).

Another thing about the Sham Wow commercial is something the guy generalizes about that makes me wonder if I should be offended or not: "It was made in Germany. You know the Germans always make good stuff." And why I'm going off to hell is because the first German-made "stuff" I thought of was a concentration camp (now I'm generalizing). He probably (hopefully) means beer or Volkswagens (more generalizing). I don't know if I should be offended that he lumped in a whole nationality or just to let it go.

Then again, I'm not a fat person and I'm still offended by the prick in the Bowflex commercial. You know the guy -- he looks like Duckie from Pretty in Pink, except now that he's on Two and A Half Men. Everytime I hear the non-word "Bowflex" I think of this prick: "I gave all my fat clothes to my fat friends."

Wow, you call your friends fat? How many fat friends do you have now? What's that? None? Big surprise. Prick.

Fat people don't want to be told they're fat by some musclehead -- they know, they're not stupid like Bowflex pricks.

I don't know what the hell is wrong with these people or how they get on TV, but what the hell is wrong with us, the general public? We're buying this garbage. We're twittering, facebooking, and Youtubing our love (or hate) for these products.

If you bought that Bowflex in an installment plan and don't use it enough to make the cost worth it, buyer beware or be aware of yourself and your loose wallet. If you bought the Snuggie and love the hell out of it, so much that you wear it to work or make love to your spouse in it, good for you: you've just given the infomercial folks an easy target for their next cheaply produced advertisement.

-Girl on the Corner, hiding blankets in her attic from the SS (Snuggie Supporters)

Two-timer comes clean

Dear Blog,

I have a shameful confession to make. Inspired by Girl on the Corner's honesty, I feel that I too must come clean: I've been having a relationship with another blog for more than four months now. I had tried to find a way to break it to you gently, but I could never find the words. I'm sorry that it has come to this.

Now, I assure you, I have not abandoned you, dear blog, faithful blog. You were my first blog, and as we all know, you never truly get over your first blog. In fact, I hope you will be able to make peace with my other blog so that we can all co-exist in loving harmony, perhaps as some sort of kinky three-way marriage, if that's not asking too much (I won't press the matter just yet). If it's any comfort to you, I only share my cinematic musings with this other blog, but my secret desires, my most feverish dreams, my heart, my soul—that belongs to you.

Please know that I'm there for you.

Bloggingly yours,
Joe Wet Cow

Won't ya be my readers?

I've decided to juggle blogs and rock out with my rooster out. I hope you'll all give my second blog a read from time to time.

http://rockrageous.blogspot.com/

-Girl on the Corner (for those about to read, I salute you!)

I'm not your mom (I promise)

(Happy New Year!)

I blame my voice recorder. I was fine until then -- my shoulders set back a little straighter, my words chosen a little more carefully as I converse with strangers, my eyes targeting the eyes of strangers. Only an adult and RSP* could display such confident body language.

And then there are the tangibles that show adulthood, like the car or furniture. Then there's the first steps onto the career track, the GICs and RRSPs, and the thoughts of buying a condo close to work.

Talk about being an adult, a grown-up, a big person. What the hell, right? I was a squeaky-voiced teenager at Zellers Smellers (or Zellers Hellers) only a few years ago being yelled at by fat, old women trapped in their jobs, doing the same work and being in the same financial situation as a 19-year-old girl.

I felt so adult up until that voice recorder that I started to smile appreciatingly at babies and toddlers, thinking, "Yeah, one day I think I'd like to get me one of those and be one of those 'mom things,' so I can get promoted to a grandma position."

And even though this was all just a wandering thought (so don't worry, boyfriend), I was jonesing for some mom time.

And then I heard myself on tape -- a squeaky-voiced girl with a ridiculously stupid, fake laugh. Why didn't anybody tell me I'm still Nerd Girl? Didn't you see that I was only just lost in an adult cloud and not actually an adult?

Sigh, shudder, for shame.

With a voice like mine, I can't spawn; it's too cute and clean and desperate to be liked and respected (but inside I hear a deeper, stronger womanly voice, almost tomboyish somedays).

So I can't be a mom anytime soon (unless by accident or God pokes me like he did with the "Virgin" Mary [are those quotations sacrilege?]). So until my voice catches up to the rest of my adult characteristics, I'll play baby-keep-away and sit in my parents' basement playing Nintendo with my legs firmly shut.

-- Girl on the Corner (using her voice as birth control)

*Recovering Shy Person